


Idol-images of Some Fair Form

by bucketmouse



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Street Racing, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 10:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3893170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketmouse/pseuds/bucketmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Ronan feels like he could drive forever, like if he just kept driving this night would never end, the world would just empty to pavement and him and Adam nursing at an almost empty beer. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>It’s tempting. It would be enough. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Idol-images of Some Fair Form

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to asael for both being my beta and dragging me down with her into this fandom.

The gearshift of the Pig is warm under Ronan’s palm, the beer in his other hand slowly rising in temperature to meet it. Beads of perspiration slide down the glass bottle, mingling with Ronan’s own sweat as he sits in the driver’s seat, idling, watching the light turn from red to green to yellow to red once more. 

“He’s late,” Adam’s voice manages to be somehow soft and sharp at the same time. Like a sigh, a breath, but with the implication of expectation. The other young man takes up the passenger seat, elbow propped up against the window as he looks out into the featureless night of Henrietta. The thin fabric of his red t-shirt is probably soaked through by now, sticking him against the Pig’s seats. 

“He’ll be here. He isn’t the type to chicken out, even if he knows he’ll lose,” Ronan says, watching the light make another full cycle.

“I guess you _can_ smell your own,” Adam’s words are intentionally cutting, eyes half lidded and disapproving as Ronan turns to look at him. That elegant mouth forming an even more elegant frown. “I don’t know how you talked me into this.” 

Ronan doesn’t either, actually, but it hardly matters. Before he can think too hard on it, there are headlights in the rear view mirror. Kavinsky and his posse. His flashy white car pulls up on Ronan’s left side and he lowers the window. They exchange vulgar pleasantries where Kavinsky questions Ronan’s sexuality (“I see you brought your trailer trash girlfriend along for the ride, was this not Dick’s scene?”) and Ronan throws out a few insults towards Kavinsky’s heritage that imply that he has at least read a European history book even if he cuts class. Were it not for the way Adam’s expression darkens at Kavinsky, Ronan would think that he was actually angry at _him_ instead of simply having an awful case of resting bitch face. 

“This is a remarkably stupid idea, even for you, king of stupid ideas,” Adam warns when the windows go up and Ronan’s eyes shift to the stoplight. He reaches across the gear shift and passes Adam the bottle of beer. 

“Throw this at his car when we win.”

They’re off like bats out of hell the instant the light changes, warned by the yellow of the crossing street. Adam leans back with surprise at the sudden velocity change, because even watching the road Ronan can’t help but watch Adam out of the corner of his eye. The Pig doesn’t have oh-shit-handles and Adam briefly gropes above the window before he seems to realize this in dismay. It rattles like nobody’s business, the roar of the engine drowning out the Celtic punk rock Ronan had playing, but with every shift he feels his heartbeat keeping time with the music through the throb of the bass.

In the flash of a passing street light - one of only two on this road - he can see Adam get accustomed to the speed, settling against the seat, managing to look mildly disapproving at the world rather than afraid. Forget marble, his profile could be cast in spun sugar - delicate and beautiful and so easily breakable. It’s gone in an instant, street light long behind them. Ronan shifts gear again, crawling up behind Kavinsky, the Pig keeping a steady build of speed and gaining. 

The second light flashes by, and out of the corner of his eye this time Ronan sees Adam tilt his head back - that perfect throat exposed pale and smooth and beautiful - bringing the mouth of the bottle to his lips. 

It’s less than a second, but every small movement feels drawn out in flawless detail, a second slowed to an eternity to capture it in perfection. Eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he closes his eyes for the action, can Adam taste Ronan’s lips clinging to the bottle from moments before? A swipe of pink as Adam’s tongue darts out against his own lips, the moment of his throat as he swallows the mouthful of lukewarm imported beer. It should distract Ronan, make him miss the shift, but he feels absolutely electrified. Feels like it must feel to be plugged directly into Cabeswater, energy and power coursing through him.

He shifts the gear, finding the sweet spot between them, pedal to the floor and it feels like the Pig is going to shake right apart, like Ronan’s electricity is the only thing keeping it together. It will hold, he knows it will. Even though the mechanical din of the engine screaming out its holy fury, Ronan can still clearly hear Adam’s soft _sigh_ of what Ronan swears is pleasure because he feels it too. Endless pavement before him, endless pavement behind him, the moon high and heavy above the only illumination for miles, and the Pig the only thing keeping the two of them safe as they travel through these instances at speeds man was not meant to travel. 

" _\-- nothin' ever came from a life that was a simple one, so pull yourself together girl and have a little fun --_ " sings the heavily accented voice over the speakers, just barely audible as Ronan’s attention turns back to the road instead of Adam next to him.

Just in time to flip Kavinsky the bird while he blows past him, Kavinsky missing the shift and Ronan making it, and just like that the world is now just the two of them hurtling through the night through time and space at speeds that make Ronan hard just thinking about, adrenaline still coursing through him.

In this moment he is a god. 

“You didn’t throw the bottle,” he tells Adam, glancing across at the other. Adam takes another sip from it, slower this time, purposeful as he watches Ronan without attempting to hide it. Adam’s mouth on the bottle could cause a six car pileup if there were six cars around to do so. 

“Blue would kill you for littering,” Adam says like it’s the most logical thing in the world, turning his attention back out into the empty night. Ronan doesn’t really want to think about Blue right now and his mind skips right over her name, over her presence, because the whole world is just him and Adam and the Pig. 

Ronan downshifts easily, letting it slow at its own pace, the rumbling of the car gradually lessens until it no longer feels ready to fly apart at the wrong touch. _Ronan_ is still in fourth gear, still keyed up on his adrenaline rush. On Adam sitting so close to him.

He smells like gasoline and motor oil. Like engine grease and chrome.

It’s an aphrodisiac for Ronan, as if Adam himself wasn’t all on his own.

Ronan feels like he could drive forever, like if he just kept driving this night would never end, the world would just empty to pavement and him and Adam nursing at an almost empty beer. 

It’s tempting. It would be enough. 

He pulls over anyway, allows Gansey’s car take a well-earned rest. The keys feel hot in his palm in the already overly warm summer night. With his hands now free, Adam wordlessly passes the beer bottle back to Ronan. He glances at the mouth of it for a moment, taking care to acknowledge that Adam’s lips were pressed against this a moment before. _Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus._ Ronan chugs the last three mouthfuls in it without a pause for breath, chucks the now empty bottle into the back seat while he swallows. Adam rolls his eyes, always disapproving, impossible to please. That haughty expression does things to Ronan. The same thing just the smell of an auto shop does, which Adam perpetually carries with him. Adam sees it as a badge of shame. It’s just one more thing that makes him worthy of worship for Ronan. 

The moonlight silhouettes Adam’s profile, making him even more ethereal, something magical from outside of time. Inhuman in the most magnificent ways. Ronan has gotten good at staring at Adam without making it too obvious, he thinks, but only when Adam turns away from the window to meet his gaze does Ronan realize he was doing it openly. Like at the church, they sit in companionable silence, heads resting against the seats mapping each other’s form to visual memory. 

Adam glances down at Ronan’s lap. The steering wheel leaves most of his lap in shadow but he’s still visibly hard. From the race. From beating Kavinsky. From Adam. Ronan can’t even find it in him to feel embarrassed. It isn’t Sunday, he isn’t in church, this isn’t the allotted time of the week to revel in shame and self-hatred. Adam looks neither surprised nor offended when his eyes drift back up to meet Ronan’s, anyway. 

There is something dark behind them. Ronan’s APO Jeans feel like they tighten considerably at that look. Adam has a violence in him that he hates, that he works so hard to keep inside. Only with Ronan does he let it out. It’s something of Adam that belongs to just him. He doesn’t dare look away from Adam’s eyes - soil brown that looks black in the low light - as the other boy gives out another sigh. An echo of the first one, soft and pleasured and he leans back against the passenger side door, shifts his legs so one is tucked up against his chest, foot braced against the gear shift between them, resting against the back of the seat. The other remains on the ground under the glove box. 

It’s as close to an implicit invitation that the cramped space allows for. Ronan throws the parking break even though it’s going to dig into his thigh, it’s a bruise he’ll cherish. He is quite familiar with the maneuvering it takes to get into the right position, one hand braced against the window next to Adam’s head, the other hanging onto the seat. One knee is planted between Adam’s legs and when he shifts Ronan can feel the unmistakable bulge there. Barely visible in the moonlight, there’s a dust of pink across Adam’s cheeks, the tips of his ears. He doesn’t relegate his shame to church. Ronan shifts his leg a little closer in his own open invitation. It’s the only point of contact between them and from it lightning sparks inside of Ronan again. Like the race, his pulse quickens, or maybe he never came down from that high and is riding the second wave seamlessly from the first. 

He ducks his head down before he can overthink it, not quite letting his mouth touch Adam’s skin but pressing his cheek against the spot where Adam’s neck meets his shoulder, taking in the scent of auto shop and sweat and the faintest traces of the hand lotion he left Adam. This close, he can feel Adam swallow, feel his pulse racing with undeniable _want_. Ronan can give him what he needs, what he wasn’t getting before. _Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death._ He lets his lips brush lightly against the skin of Adam’s neck, he wants to sink his teeth in, to suck and bite and leave a mark for the world to see. Wants Adam to do the same to him. 

Ronan brings his head up, presses his forehead against Adam’s. Adam has, at some point, brought his hands up to Ronan’s shoulders, to clench his fists in the thin fabric of the designer muscle shirt he’s wearing. They’re so close everything blurs, both open mouthed and gasping, breath mixing in the too warm car, lips and tongues barely inches apart.

He realizes then, with a sudden clarity, if he kisses Adam he will wake up. 

Ronan knows the Pig inside and out. He knows Adam, how he looks, how he smells, but they have never kissed and he doesn’t actually know how Adam _tastes_ , so his brain (or, Heaven help him, _Cabeswater_ ) will supply something else. 

Adam sighs again, this time a soft whine builds in his throat. This Adam wants Ronan as much as Ronan wants him. There is a hiss from outside the car, a whisper of leaves in the wind. Without looking Ronan knows what he will see if he looks out the window now. Not empty, endless pavement and moon-drenched farmlands but the forests of Cabeswater pressing against the car, keeping the two of them safe and secret, giving the Greywaren what he wants. 

Ronan needs to wake up. He knows he needs to. The hand on the seat shifts, instead going to rest against the exposed bit of stomach on Adam from where his shirt has rode up slightly. Ronan slides it up his skin and under the shirt, listens to the sweet symphony of Adam’s breath hitching, the soft moan of need, breath ghosting against Ronan’s lips. 

He ducks his head down, seals their lips together, tongue sliding into Adam’s willing mouth. He tastes the import beer and strangely like the plums from the Barns, so sweet and ripe, wanting to be eaten, and Ronan prays, _prays_ he doesn’t wake up with this Adam in his bed because he will never be able to explain that to Gansey. 

_Amen_.

He wakes with a sudden shock, like water crashing against the rocks, almost no time between his out of body experience and returning to himself. The autumn weather leaves a chill to his sweat-soaked skin, blankets kicked off the bed. He is still achingly hard and so very ashamed. In his right hand he holds tight to a bundle of fabric and is unsurprised to shake it out and find it’s an exact replica of Adam’s coca-cola shirt, the kind of vintage look that raven boys pay hundreds of dollars to designers for and Adam obtained by his father probably purchasing the shirt new in the seventies. 

Against his better judgement, Ronan brings it to his face, inhales the scent of it deeply.

Gasoline and motor oil. Engine grease and chrome. Sweat and imported beer. 

He throws the shirt into a darkened corner of his room. No one goes in here, it isn’t like he has to hide it. Except a moment later he’s standing, taking the shirt and folding it neatly as he can and shoving it under his mattress out of sight like a dirty magazine. 

He’s already awake and he needs to take care of the, well, _need_ he’s got going, and just rubbing one out is out of the question, because he won’t be able to _not_ think of Adam. 

Ronan grabs a towel and goes to take the coldest shower he can. He doesn’t bother to voice aloud a promise that he won’t make a habit of this, because he is not inclined to lie.


End file.
